what we need is here

horseback on Sunday morning,

harvest over, we taste persimmon

and wild grape, sharp sweet 

of summer's end.  in time's maze

over fall fields, we name names 

that rest on graves.  we open

a persimmon seed to find the tree

that stands in promise,

pale, in the seed's marrow.

geese appear high over us,

pass, and the sky closes.  abandon,

as in love or sleep, holds 

them to their way, clear

in the ancient faith:  what we need 

is here.  and we pray, not

for new earth or heaven, but to be

quiet in heart, and in eye,

clear.  what we need is here.

by wendell berry